


Mr. Sandman

by Slasherholic



Category: Halloween Movies - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Lust, Masturbation, Murder, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 16:52:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17770607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slasherholic/pseuds/Slasherholic
Summary: In which you lust after Michael Myers while he goes on a murder-spree through the suburbs, all to the tune of a cheerful 50's song.





	Mr. Sandman

Candlelight flickers mesmerizingly across white tile and paints the walls of your bathroom with gentle hues of orange and yellow. You watch the twisting and dancing of the flames from between half-lidded eyes. A gentle breeze whistles in through the overhead window to bite chillingly at your knees, so you sink lower into the embrace of the heated bathwater, and tilt languidly back until your head rests against smooth porcelain. Your eyes flutter shut. Through your window sweeps the clamor of suburbia— the muffled bickering of neighbors, the gruff barking of a riled dog, and, barely audible, so far-off in the distance that you could be imagining it, you catch the shrill, somber wailing of police sirens. The world beyond your bathroom is abysmally lonely.

You exhale solemnly and reach sluggishly up to your vanity. Steam rolls in wisps from your pinkened skin and water drips and drops to the tile. You click a button on your cassette player, and its speakers come to life, sputtering and crackling as a saccharine tune echoes out to pluck cheerfully across the bathroom. Your face tugs into a distant, longing smile.

_Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream  
Make him the cutest that I’ve ever seen._

You hum along to the tune as your hand slips lazily back into the warmth of the water, and your mind drifts out beyond the walls of your bathroom, travelling far off into the night.

_Give him two lips, like roses and clover  
Then tell him that his lonesome nights are over._

Elsewhere, where the mournful wail of police sirens is not so distant, a figure lurks in shadows cast by rows of cookie-cutter houses. His blade is already dark and slick with crimson, and his fingers twitch impatiently around its slippery handle. His boots squelch over a tidy lawn. He slips along the side of one of the houses to peer in through a window. The room inside is dim; through the blinds, he catches the harsh white flicker of a television screen, and sees the shadows of unsuspecting figures dancing back and forth along the walls. His pulse throbs in his temple and in his palms and at his groin. He knows that the longer he watches, the longer he waits, the needier the burn between his legs will grow. He will not act on it now, though; the clamor in his mind is far too loud. 

Later. That relief will come later.

_Sandman, I’m so alone  
Don’t have nobody to call my own._

You think only of Michael as your fingers dip down and rub along your warmth. You know that as you touch yourself here, in the comfort and tranquility of your bathtub, the Shape is satisfying his own urges somewhere out in that lonely night, against the chill of an autumn breeze, under the pale light of a fat, full moon. You know, too, that Michael will only succeed in satiating one of his needs—the other will go staunchly ignored, left to swell and seethe and grow within him; and, when it finally wins him over, when at last he seeks his release, he will return home to you.

Water sloshes out onto tile as your fingers work deftly against your sex, fueled by the thought of Michael’s rough hands grasping at your hips. Your brows knit together. Your mouth falls agape. You arch needily into your own touch.

_Please turn on your magic beam  
Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream._

Through the dimness of that far-off, cookie-cutter house slices the sudden glint of cold steel, and a wet squeal, which is drowned away as a chipper commercial yammers on. A hot mist splatters across the flickering television screen and trickles slowly, dutifully down to drip on floral-patterned carpet. A limp body falls to the floor, thudding dully where it lands, destined to be forgotten about the moment its twitching fingers still. Michael stares absently at the gash blossoming across his victim’s throat.

A sudden, shrill scream pierces the air, and Michael turns. A woman in a bright pink nightgown hovers at the edge of the living room, a look of dumb shock plastered on her face. She stares on with widening eyes which dart from the ruined body on the floor, to Michael’s own gory figure, to the gleaming, flithy knife clenched between his white-knuckled fingers. A wineglass clatters from her fingers and shatters where it lands. The woman stumbles from the room like an animal in full panic. Michael starts after her. The voices rise and swell and sing.

_Mr. Sandman, bring us a dream_  
Give him a pair of eyes with a “come-hither” gleam.  
Give him a lonely heart like Pagliacci  
And lots of wavy hair like Liberace. 

You call Michael’s name in shallow, lustful gasps as you rub and tease your sex. Your mouth pulls into a tight “O” as you recall the sensation of Michael’s impossibly strong hands clamping around your hips— you can nearly feel the embrace of his rough fingers sweeping across your flushed, radiating skin. You imagine the way that his muffled breaths will become labored and heavy when at last his arousal wins out, and how the stiffness of his formidable length will press against the back of your thighs.

When Michael takes you, it will be hard and fast, and not an act of passion, but one of raw, primal instinct.

A frustrated whine falls from your lips and morphs into a shallow, breathless pant as you edge yourself closer to release. The bathwater laps playfully at your skin as your hand works fervently against your folds, the heat of it sloshing across your tender nipples and spilling out onto the slippery tile. You think of how Michael will burst through the door, of how he will bend you roughly over the cold countertop and pound ravenously into your warm, pink cunt until he comes deep inside of you.

You need Michael inside of you. You have never needed anything more in your entire life.

_Mr Sandman, someone to hold  
Would be so peachy before we’re too old._

In that far-off house, where the not-so-distant police sirens continue to wail and a television carries on crackling obliviously, panicked footsteps creak up wooden stairs. There is a slip, a stumble, a sharp gasp, a strangled gurgle. Michael’s strong fingers envelop a warm throat. The woman flails and heaves in his grasp until her face has reddened and then blued, and her eyes bulge like an insect. She gapes dumbly. Michael can feel the woman’s angry pulse beating through her neck— he can feel it slowing, fading, choking beneath his fingers. The voices scream at him. His sex throbs torturously between his legs, hard and hot.

He squeezes. There is a sharp, horrible crunch. A wet gurgle. Another dull thud.

_So please turn on your magic beam_

The tub babbles and drains, and the plucky tune sweeps across your bathroom in a crescendo. You hum enchantedly along with it as you swaddle yourself in a soft towel and tip-toe across the flooded tile, to your vanity. Despite the chill that whips across your radiating skin, you won’t bother with getting dressed— you will stay right here, listening restlessly for the screech of a halting car against the curb outside, yearning for the moment that those heavy bootsteps creak across your porch. You beam contentedly at yourself in the mirror and mouth the final lines along with song that crackles from your dusty cassette player.

_Mr Sandman, bring us, please, please, please_

_Mr Sandman bring us a dream._


End file.
